


Historical

by Makalaure



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Drinking, Gen, Gondolin, Humor, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makalaure/pseuds/Makalaure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I haven't a clue."</p><p>"Of course. You wouldn't have a clue if it danced into your chamber in the dead of night wearing a frilly frock and singing, 'I am a clue!' in an operatic voice."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Historical

Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works. 

Historical

Aredhel smacked her palms down on Turgon's desk. "I want an explanation."

Turgon blinked. Outside the stained-glass window, the moon shone and the sounds of festivities pricked the air. It was the feast of midsummer, which had been scheduled to start about an hour later; but the people had grown impatient. "About what?" he asked.

"Do not try my patience."

"I haven't a clue."

"Of course. You wouldn't have a clue if it danced into your chamber in the dead of night wearing a frilly frock and singing, 'I am a clue!' in an operatic voice."

Turgon put down his quill pen and steepled his fingers, obviously trying to look sombre and important. It did not impress Aredhel, who had witnessed him dropping bugs into their father's soup and being tackled into the mud by Fingon, among other, more embarrassing things.

"Those records of our family in your fancy library," she ground out. "They are inaccurate."

"Why?" said Turgon with a frown.

"Am I wearing white?"

"Is that a trick question?" He swallowed when Aredhel narrowed her eyes. "No, you are not."

Aredhel was, in fact, clad in a cornflower-blue dress. "Was I wearing white last night, when I was teaching your daughter to shoot arrows?"

"No." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "You were wearing dark green."

Aredhel released a sigh. " _Why_ do the records say that I am always in white? That makes no sense."

"The records..." Turgon murmured stupidly.

"I only wear white on formal occasions, and you know it," she snapped. "I am a hunter. I wear green when hunting, and carry a grey cloak, like normal, intelligent people. Do you know how difficult it is to camouflage yourself when you are wearing white?"

"Now, Aredhel – "

"Your historians are inept."

Turgon's jaw clicked shut.

"I am not an ornament that exists only at feasts and at festivals. You will tell your feeble-minded academics to change the records. I am not asking you," she added when Turgon opened his mouth. "Now, I am going to join the festivities." She paused and looked down at her dress, and then glared at her brother. "I will not wear white this evening."

As she strode out of the chamber, Glorfindel staggered in, carrying a bottle of wine. He plumped it down on Turgon's desk, a big grin on his face. "My king!" he said in a high voice. "Come join us in the courtyard. The moon is full and Ecthelion is going to sing." 

Turgon massaged his temples. "I need to speak with the head librarian," he said.

"He is drunk," Glorfindel said cheerily. He sallied forth to the window and looked down. "Actually, I think he is dancing on a table. Oh, there goes the roasted wild boar."

Turgon gave a sad little moan and put his head in his hands. "Aredhel is right. Those records ought to be changed."

"Speak with the librarian in the morning," said Glorfindel, fishing out two goblets from the rosewood cabinet in the corner. Without being asked, he opened the bottle and poured dark red wine to the brims of the goblets. He thrust one into Turgon's hands; somehow, not a drop was spilled.

Turgon stared at his reflection in the wine. Of course the librarian would pretend to be happy to indulge Turgon's request, but there was that slight possibility that he would grow annoyed and deliberately do something rash. Like burn half the library to the ground. 

"I am being paranoid," Turgon muttered to himself. "I need a drink." He took a sip and suppressed a cough, his eyes watering. It was strong.

Glorfindel had already chugged his way through half his goblet. There was a pink glow on his cheeks.

In the morning Turgon woke up with a crick in his neck. He had fallen asleep at his desk. Bright sunlight filtered through the windows and painted the floor. Glorfindel was nowhere to be seen.

At least he still had his clothes on. Nothing was broken, either. "'m never trusting that blond nutcase ever again," Turgon groaned. For some reason, he found the peace and quiet ominous.

There was a sharp knock on the door. When Turgon did not immediately reply, it was repeated, more urgently.

"Come in!" Turgon said, rubbing his eyes. 

The door opened and Ecthelion walked in, an odd, somewhat disbelieving expression on his face. His hair was dishevelled, as if he had just rolled out of bed. Turgon was mildly surprised that his captain was not grossly hung-over. 

"I have some, er, distressing news," said Ecthelion.

"Spit it out," Turgon sighed. "And do not mince your words."

"The festivities got a bit out of hand, and, well, half the library was burnt down."

Turgon gazed at Ecthelion, his jaw slack.

"The librarian did it. Come to think of it, he had been shouting something last night about hating his job. I don't think he meant to set fire to the building, though."

Turgon released a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a wheeze.

Ecthelion continued as if he was describing the weather. "We managed to salvage some of the books, including your family records."

*** 

Aredhel stood before the smoking library, shaking her head. A curious crowd had gathered, and some people were digging around for books that were still more or less intact. Two or three people had nicked some useless objects, including a charred painting of the back of Glorfindel's head.

She could not stay in this madhouse any longer.

"That's it," she said to no one in particular, "I'm leaving."

-end-


End file.
